


Retaliation

by SunnySidesofBlue



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Corruption, Cruelty, Implied/Referenced Torture, Indirect murder, Kidnapping, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Rape/Non-con Elements, Revenge, Suicide Attempt, sex trade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-23
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2017-12-27 09:49:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/977348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunnySidesofBlue/pseuds/SunnySidesofBlue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are some things that can never be forgiven. When Prowl and Jazz find out what has been done to their only creation and discover that the law is unwilling to touch the ones responsible they take matters into their own hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This actually began as one of my own kinkmeme prompts, but since no one else was interested (it was more plot than kink anyway) and it wouldn’t leave me alone I decided to take a shot at it. Updates will probably be slow and irregular unless there's a sudden rush of comments demanding otherwise (yes, that's a hint ;P).
> 
> Though not quite as graphic as most of my other fics there will be a fair bit of triggery themes in this story and I’ll try to add adequate warnings when they are called for but be warned – I might miss to specify something because to me it blends with the general darkness. Please feel free to drop me an email (sunnysidesofblue@gmail.com) if you have some personal squick and want to know if it will/might be included.

(*** = change of POV)

Chromeblaze was humming contentedly to himself as he drove away from the posh address where he’d just delivered his merchandise. This particular delivery had taken quite some time to arrange, but the amount on the credit chip he now held safely stashed in his subspace had made it worth the while.

He was known for being able to get whatever a customer wanted, no matter how exotic or illegal, as long as they were willing to pay for it. And this particular customer had been. It actually amazed Chromeblaze how someone could pay such an obscene amount of creds merely to satisfy a kink, but then who was he to complain? It made his job all the more agreeable.

This assignment had been a tricky one, though, and all the false smiling and playing nice had really begun grating on his nerves. He wasn’t a particularly nice bot in any sense of the word but he looked good enough and could be devilishly charming when he put his mind to it. That was his greatest asset and finally it had paid off this time as well, even though it had taken too damn long.

The only thing he slightly regretted about the whole affair was that he didn’t get a real taste of the goods before it was delivered, but that had been the condition of the arrangement and he had to abide by it.

Putting it all behind him as nothing more than a profitable bit of business he kept driving and turned his focus to his next job.

***

The evening so far had been a complete success. He had started out at a fashionable bar, spending some time there with a couple of friends before moving on to an even more exclusive establishment with the most exquisite highgrade and a very… customer-friendly attitude to personal service, providing just about every kind of entertainment a wealthy mech or femme could dream of.

And then he had returned to his lavish top floor Tower’s suite for the ultimate climax of a perfect evening, something not even the most specialized clubs could offer. But with the right contacts and enough credits to burn, nothing was impossible. He had both in abundance.

The object of his purchase and subsequent conquest now lay quivering and sobbing on the floor of one of the berthrooms, while he himself had just come out from his wash rack and now sat on the couch in the lounge, enjoying some highgrade and slowly coming down from the high of three processor-blowing overloads. He already knew how he was going to continue once his systems had recovered a bit, and the mere thought made his circuits tingle.

Life was altogether enjoyable.

***

The young mech didn’t have any tears left. He merely lay where _he_ \- laughing and promising to be back for more soon - had dropped him, staring at the ceiling with an unseeing gaze, optics almost white with pain. His entire being swiveled in a maelstrom of anguish, shame and a spark-shattering feeling of betrayal. He had trusted Chromeblaze, had loved him and thought himself loved in return. He had thought the silver mech was The One, that perfect love, the mech he would give up his seals and, in time, his very spark to.

And Chromeblaze had betrayed him, had seduced him only to sell him like a common piece of goods. The young mech wasn’t sure what hurt more at that moment, his abused frame or his shattered spark. He couldn’t even think clearly.

What he did know was that it was all too much to bear.

Forcing his painfully throbbing limbs to comply he slowly dragged himself across the floor towards the balcony door, leaving a trail of mixed fluids on the floor. With a herculean effort he pushed himself up on his knees and after a few attempts he managed to get the door open. Stumbling out into the cool air he grabbed hold of the guardrail and heaved himself to his pedes, desperation giving him strength.

For a few seconds he merely stood there, looking out over the city without really seeing any of it.

Then, with one last thought of apology directed at his creators, Bluestreak leaned over the banister and allowed himself to fall.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the afternoon before the prologue

Bluestreak leaned back on the couch, thoroughly relaxed and feeling pretty much in seventh Heaven.

The reason was sitting straddled over his lap, hands sweeping appreciatively over his doorwings, and lip plates alternating between his own lips and his neck plating. Chromeblaze was _very_ skilled with both hands and glossa, as the young Praxian had quickly discovered right at the beginning of their relationship. Not that he had anyone else to compare with, but he found it hard to imagine how it could be better. They may not have fully interfaced yet, only shared a few tactile overloads, but the somewhat elder and decidedly more experienced mech had been very patient and generous and Bluestreak felt unbelievably lucky to have found such a perfect partner in his very first relationship.

He also had a feeling they might take that next step tonight, and although a bit nervous about giving up his seals he trusted Chromeblaze completely and knew the silver mech would make it feel amazing.

Chromeblaze claimed the mouth of his partner in one last deep kiss before pulling away, eliciting a small, needy whimper from the younger mech.

“You know, sweetspark, I think I'm gonna get a cube of highgrade. I found this reeeal nice mix the other day, want some?”

“Hmm?” Bluestreak mumbled, still a bit dazed by the kiss. “Oh, yes please.”

Reluctantly he onlined his optics and removed his hands from the other's waist, allowing him to get up. The sudden lack of closeness, of warm plating grinding sensuously against his, sent a shiver across his sensory net and he really hoped his partner would hurry back. His presence was strangely addictive; it gave such a wonderful feeling of being treasured. Bluestreak’s upbringing had been very happy, he loved his creators very much and had certainly never felt unappreciated, but this was a different kind of love, new and exciting, and he found himself craving it with an intensity that surprised him. He knew it was a really quite a bit too soon to think of such things but he couldn’t help imagining their future together, how their current infatuation matured to the same kind of glowing love that his creators shared, how they would bond and…

He was pulled out of his daydreams as he felt Chromeblaze approach from behind. Tilting his helm backwards he looked up at his soon-to-be lover, face radiating happiness. The silver mech smiled back, bent down and caught the young Praxian’s lips in an upside-down kiss that once again sent Bluestreak’s sensors tingling.

“Here,” Chromeblaze said once they broke the kiss, giving his partner one of the sparkling cubes of highgrade he had brought from the kitchen area. “One cube of Chromeblaze special, I'm sure you'll love it. To us!” he said and raised the cube.

“To us,” Bluestreak replied, still so immersed in his own dreamy happiness that he never noticed the smugness creeping into Chromeblaze's grin as he drank from the cube, nor the strangely sweet taste of the highgrade.

He was out within 40 seconds.

_***_

Bluestreak came back online to the sensation of clever hands stroking his doorwings. It felt wonderful and he contentedly remained as he was, optics shuttered and with a smile on his face as he thoroughly enjoyed the sensation. It wasn't the first time Chromeblaze had played with his sensory panels and not the first time he had drifted into recharge from the soothing touches. This time, though, the fondling was decidedly more of an erotic nature and the young Praxian felt a shudder of pleasure and anticipation run along his back strut.

“Mmmmm, 'Blaze, that's wonderful,” he mumbled, words turning into a moan as he felt a glossa trace the edge of his right door wing. Primus, that was divine!

He tried to push himself further back and into the touch.

Which was when he realised that something was locking his wrists to the berth, making it impossible to move his arms.

Bewildered but not yet overly worried Bluestreak lifted his helm from the pillow and onlined his optics.

Only to find himself blindfolded.

“'Blaze?” he said, a slight feeling of unease beginning to seep through him when he tugged at the restraints and found them unyielding. He knew that many found this kind of games exciting, but for his first time Bluestreak really wanted something more basic. “'Blaze, will you please untie me? I'm not sure I like this.”

“What a pity,” a voice breathed into his audio, and Bluestreak realised with tank-churning horror that it was _not_ Chromeblaze's. “Because I do, and we’re going to play this game the way _I_ want.”

“Who... what... who are you?!” the young Praxian gasped, trying to wriggle away from the caressing hands only to find that his ankles were just as thoroughly stuck as his wrists. “Stop, stop it, please let me go!”

“Oh no,” the voice said, thick with what the pinioned youngling even in his rising panic recognised as lust. “I'm keeping you _right here_ until I have taken what I want. _Everything_ I want.”

 _Oh nonononono, please tell me this is all a bad recharge flux!_ Bluestreak thought, desperately struggling against the restraints as he felt the hands on his doorwings slide suggestively down his back and come to rest on his aft.

“Please,” he pleaded, “stop it! I don't want... I'm not... I've never... oh please for Primus's sake STOP!”

His voice rose higher and higher and turned into a squeaked keen as the hands of the unknown mech slid in between his legs and started stroking the inside of his thighs.

“Oh, I know you've never interfaced, you wouldn't be here otherwise. I'm not interested in spoilt goods.”

Bluestreak gave a terrified whimper as his unknown assailant found and triggered the manual release for the panel covering his interfacing equipment. The whimper turned into a sob when he felt a finger probe the entrance of his valve and then slowly press in until it reached the sealing membrane that proved his virginity.

“Ah, there it is,” the lustful voice said, stroking the finger against the rubbery seal. “How pretty you are, youngling. I will enjoy having you.”

The young Praxian was on the verge of complete panic, futilely fighting against the restraints and crying openly by now.

“Please don't... please don't...” he managed to get out in between the sobs, shaking in fear and discomfort at the unwanted intrusion. The way he was bound, splayed wide open, didn't even allow him to close his legs to protect himself. He was completely helpless and utterly vulnerable.

Then he felt the weight of another frame settling on top of him, easily stilling his struggling with sheer weight and bulk, and Bluestreak knew that he was irrevocably lost.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for callousness. Also, to avoid misunderstandings: I use the word "youngling" as a rough equivalent of "teenager" and Bluestreak, although still young and inexperienced, is legally of age in this story

_Very early in the morning, over a heavily encrypted comm. line._  
  


”Mech, do you know what frigging time it is?”  
  
“Yeah, I do.  Listen, I may have a little problem. You know about that Praxian?”  
  
“Please tell me you didn’t call and wake me up just to talk about your latest toy. Unless it’s an invitation to join in, of course.”  
  
“Very funny. No, the little bastard just threw himself from my balcony!”  
  
The was a moment’s pause.  
  
“That, my friend, is more than a little problem. Did he survive?”  
  
“Don’t know. When I realized he was gone and the terrace door was open I looked down, but there were already two mechs there so I couldn’t very well go down and check. A med team has arrived now but I’m not stupid enough to allow myself to be seen watching them.”  
  
“That might be prudent. I suppose you didn’t have time to clean him up or flush him?”  
  
“Of course not, I wasn’t even finished!”  
  
“I see.  How badly damaged was he? Before the fall, I mean.”  
  
“Not too badly. Some dents and scratches, valve a bit torn. Bite marks, a few strained joints.”  
  
“That’s good. If we’re lucky the damage from the fall will be severe enough to hide much of that. The real problem is the transfluid, which can’t really be explained away. Therefore I think it would be wise if I myself – representing you, of course - contacted the enforcers first thing in the morning.”  
  
“What! Are you out of your fragging mind? You’ll get me arrested for rape!”  
  
“Patience, my friend, and listen. Since there’s no mistaking the place where the youngling landed there aren’t very many places he might have fallen from and the enforcers are bound to start digging. If we contact them first, telling about the unfortunate accident with the pleasure bot you were spending the night with - how he was drunk and so tragically stumbled - and ask for their discretion I’m pretty sure they’ll leave you alone without further prompting. Otherwise there are always threads I can pull, but it would be better if they did the job for us. You are such a famous mech, after all, who wouldn’t want to do you a favour? And since you step forward so readily, of course you must have nothing to hide, eh? I promise you, they’ll buy it hook, line and sinker.”  
  
Another short moment of silence.  
  
“Very well then, you handle this. And I don’t want to see anything about me and pleasure bots in the newsfeeds.”  
  
“I’ll see what I can do, it shouldn’t be too hard. Once the enforcers are on our side we can have them leak a story of “assault by unknown perpetrator” and no-one will ever connect it to you.”  
  
“Fine. There may be another problem, though.”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“One of the brat’s creators is an enforcer. Not in this district, but still.”  
  
“Really, of all the younglings to mess around with you had to pick an enforcer’s creation?”  
  
“It shouldn’t have made any difference, there wasn’t supposed to have been any way to link him to me afterwards. It’s never been a problem before. And you saw the pictures, right? Mech, I’d have done anything to get a piece of that, and he was worth every cred I spent. You should have seen him on the berth, struggling in his restraints, trembling and whimpering as I took his seal. It was beyond delicious, so smooth and tight.”  
  
“That’s too much information, thank you very much. And just because of that you owe me a session with your next plaything.”  
  
A snorted laugh.  
  
“Deal. Just get this mess away from my door, right?”  
  
“Sure, just leave everything to me. And now, will you please allow me to go back to recharge? I have some important things to deal with tomorrow, after all.”  
  
“Shouldn’t you be working on preparing the case, then?”  
  
“Please. You’re hardly the first of my clients to have a… tryst gone wrong, you know. I know the procedures inside out. Just make sure you don’t draw any kind of attention to yourself before I have everything arranged and none of this will ever touch you.”  
  
A short pause.  
  
“But you still owe me some time with your next one.”  
  
There was another laugh and then the line was cut.  
  
 _TBC_


	4. Chapter 4

Jazz sat in silence, unable to tear his optics from the deathly still form on the med berth.

His creation. His wonderful, lively, joyful little Bluestreak, hooked up to a myriad of medical equipment and still just barely clinging on to life.

His sparkling, abused, injured, suffering.

It was almost more than he could take in. Ever since the news had reached him he had moved as if through a void, unable to focus on anything but the question _will he live?_ They still did not know the answer but the first two surgeries – replacing the cracked processor casing and mending the fragmented back strut – had been successful and the medics were cautiously optimistic. Another five operations were already planned, but even if those were successful as well there would still be a very long way to complete recovery for the young mech.

And that was only addressing the physical damage. Until Bluestreak came out of stasis there was no way to even begin to assess the amount of emotional trauma this had caused him.

Somewhere deep inside Jazz knew he was furious and once the initial shock wore off he was going to go out there and HURT SOMEBODY, but right now all he could make himself do was to sit beside the med berth, holding his creation’s hand, gently stroking his lower arm and whisper words of love and comfort, hoping against hope that maybe on some level his beloved sparkling could hear him.

***

If there was a feeling beyond angry, pissed off, livid, raging and furious, that was what Prowl was feeling.

He was running down the street, not daring to transform since he knew his driving would be reckless at best when he was in this state of mind, and as much as he hated the world and society in general right now he didn't want to cause an accident.

Jazz had sent several inquiring pulses over the bond, but Prowl didn't want to discuss this until he was optics to optics with his mate. He knew he was about as near a crash as he could possibly be and still function and once he started talking it was very possible he would cross that line. If that had to happen he wanted it to be in a safe environment and with Jazz nearby.

Reaching the hospital in under a breem despite being on pede he quickly made his way to the ICU. Forcing himself to calm down a fraction when he realized he was about to punch the completely innocent security mech asking for his ID he nevertheless continued at a brisk pace and soon found himself outside room 2583. He stopped for a moment, forcing air through his vents a few times as if to brace himself, then entered.

Jazz was there in an instant and for almost two kliks the two of them just stood there holding each other, fear, anger, hatred and worry swirling through their fields and sparks.

“Please talk to me, love” Jazz finally said, helm still tucked in under his mate’s chin. “What happened? I heard they had a suspect but that’s all.”

“They're closing the investigation,” the Praxian said, voice almost too low to be heard and thick with emotion. “They're writing it off as an 'unfortunate accident' and refuse to dig any further into the matter.”

Jazz's grip hardened.

“They can't do that,” he said, his strained voice making the statement sound more like a plea.

“They already have.”

“But there's evidence. Surely the medic's testament... with samples...”

“He doesn't deny they were together. In fact he brags about it. He said it was all consensual and that Blue...”

Here Prowl had to stop and take a deep vent before he could bring himself to spit out the disgusting words.

“He claims Bluestreak was there for business... as a pleasure bot.”

Jazz felt his processor go completely blank for a nano-klik, then he slowly raised his helm to look his mate in the optics.

“What?” he said, disbelief mixing with intense revulsion. “That's about the most obvious excuse I've ever heard. And the enforcers bought that?”

“To the last detail,” Prowl confirmed, no less distraught than his mate. “They even apologised to him for dragging him into 'such and unpleasant situation just because of a little misunderstanding'. And when I told them it was all a lie they just asked me to prove it.”

He didn't tell Jazz about the lawyer's smug statement that _“these things happen even in the best of families, you'll just have to accept that your creation wasn't quite the innocent angel you thought him to be”._ The condescending tone and the use of the past tense, as if Bluestreak was already dead, had brought Prowl within an inch of throwing himself at the mech and tearing him apart.

“They’ve also given me a formal warning,” he continued bitterly, “that if we dig any further into this they'll have us both charged with persecution and harassment of a public person, so even if we find some solid information they won't pursue it. They don't want to risk drawing the disapproving attention of such a powerful mech, which makes him untouchable.”

“To the law, perhaps,” Jazz said coldly. Letting go of his mate he returned to the med berth, took Bluestreak’s limp hand in his and held it tightly for a moment before bending over, placing a kiss on the grey fingers. It was the traditional gesture of a solemn oath. “But not to retaliation.”

The two black and whites looked each other in the optics, knowing without asking aloud that both of them shared the same thought.

It was time to hunt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry you've had to wait so long for this update. As always, reviews are very much appreciated.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions torture-like procedures and indirect murder

Most mechs would probably have thought twice about going up against one of Cybertron’s richest and most prominent industrialists, a mech with more credits that most even knew existed, contacts and influence everywhere and a reputation of never stopping until things went his way.

Most mechs, however, weren’t Prowl and Jazz.

So, three orns later Prowl was back at work. By now everyone in the precinct had heard one version or another of what had happened, and no one was surprised when he requested low priority desk work for the immediate future, which would allow him to drop everything and rush off to the hospital at a moment’s notice should things take a turn for the worse. The request was immediately granted and Prowl buried himself in the archives, tagging and filing old case material with his usual professionalism. The colleagues who had taken it upon themselves to keep a discrete optic on him noticed nothing out of the ordinary, save perhaps a slight decrease in efficiency from his normal standards. And really, who could blame the troubled carrier for that?

Had they known what 87% of his processor were engaged in they might not have been quite so quick to forgive.

Jazz returned to work at the same time as Prowl. He already had a desk job – of sorts – and did not need to request a temporary transfer, just make sure that all visitors and more critical tasks were directed at other colleagues for a while. Had anyone decided to monitor him they would have seen him doing his normal job of coding networks and analyzing data traffic, although a bit more slowly than usual.

They, too, would have been unlikely to let that slip if they had known that only about 22% of Jazz’s processor was currently dedicated to his work. The other 78% were slowly carving a digital tunnel into the private network of the managing director of Dydecatron Industries.

It was delicate work and had to be absolutely flawless to prevent detection, present or future, but this was Jazz’s element. Firewalls, viruses, intelligent and adaptive coding held few mysteries for him and combined with the sheer power of Prowl’s processor, working in tandem with his in real time over their wide open bond, there was hardly a system on Cybertron that would have been able to keep them out. Had they gone in brute force they could probably have had access within a joor but such an approach would have set off at least a dozen alarms and led nowhere but to a prison cell. And that would certainly not help Bluestreak.

So, the progress was slow, but after four orns of relentless hacking, patching and rewriting they had achieved their first goal: director Sharplight’s digital domains lay completely open to them.

It had taken mere kliks to establish that had this been about any other mech than Sharplight the battle would have been already won – a few of the documents or image files leaked to the media and that would have been it. Unfortunately any such leaks at this point would immediate throw suspicion on Jazz and Prowl and Sharplight would easily be able to wiggle – or simply buy – his way out of the whole situation.

No, this called for a much more subtle approach.

***

Jazz sat alone on the living room couch, going through data on his HUD. He wished his mate had been there with him but they had agreed one of them should spend at least a joor with Bluestreak every orn and Prowl was currently at the hospital. Apart from another successfully completed surgery the situation hadn’t changed in the last four orns, but unconscious or not they didn’t like the idea of Bluestreak being completely alone and so they took turns sitting with him, talking, singing, reading or just being there, a calm and loving field. And none of them brought their work there, so for the moment Jazz was alone in his processor as well. After several days of near constant deep contact over the bond even this normal state of privacy felt a little cold and lonely.

Jazz resolutely shoved his feelings aside and focused on the task at hand. They would need to know absolutely everything about Sharplight to be able to pull this through, and not only about him as a mech. Business connections, friends, habits, finances, everything was part of the puzzle and the more pieces they had the better the chance of success in bringing him down.

Much of that would be left to Prowl as he had the better processor for it. Jazz’s primary focus right now was to find out who besides Sharplight needed to be dealt with. Even though he was only skimming most of the material it was painfully obvious that Bluestreak was far from the first youngling the mech had violated. He seemed to have a routine of roughly one “indulgence” every seven or eight decacycles and he was meticulous in documenting every single case. As evidence it was a veritable gold mine but it still made Jazz feel sick to the core.

Worst were the video files. The tags alone made Jazz want to purge his tanks and he hadn’t been able to force himself to actually watch any of them. Sharplight seemed to only be targeting young, sealed mechs and femmes, and after he was done with them he fragmented their processors with a powerful virus, flushed their valves and intakes with acid to destroy any possible traces of his transfluid and had them dumped in the slums. Checking the list of designations against the enforcer records of missing bots revealed that a few lucky ones had been recovered and reunited with their families but the vast majority had simply disappeared.

It made Jazz even more determined to stop him and any other mech involved in this. He had already found evidence that the lawyer, Fineprint, was almost as much of a creep as Sharplight and had on several occasions been allowed to share his client’s victims. The conversation they had had on the night of Bluestreak’s rape had made Jazz clench his fists so hard they actually hurt – not to mention horrible twist in his spark when he learned that his bitlet had actually tried to take his own life – and then the exchange of images and comments afterwards…

Well, suffice to say Fineprint’s name had been added to the ‘to be dealt with’ list.

What he still hadn’t found was how Bluestreak had ended up in their hands. Blue was usually a very careful and cautious young mech, and not one to let his guard down in possibly unsafe surroundings. Of course it was still possible that he’d just been randomly snatched off the street but Jazz didn’t think so. The words “the Praxian” had been used in several messages decacycles before Bluestreak was taken, which indicated a carefully planned setup. Besides, had it been a random attack Sharplight would have had no way of knowing whether Bluestreak was still sealed or not.

An unpleasant possibility crept up in Jazz’s processor and he immediately applied a new glyph to his search algorithm and ran the scan again. The answer came back only a few nanokliks later.

Jazz’s engine revved in outrage as the details of the transaction – for a transaction it had been – were made clear to him. Chromeblaze had scouted out, seduced and _sold_ Bluestreak to Sharplight.

The life and happiness of his creation had been worth 48 000 credits.

Unable to remain still Jazz got up and started pacing the room. It was only with great difficulty he resisted the urge to start breaking everything within reach.

They had been in touch Chromeblaze the day after Bluestreak was admitted to hospital and the mech had seemed genuinely distraught when he heard the news. He’d told them he had broken up with Bluestreak on that very same evening and that Bluestreak had been very upset about it. After that he’d been quick to blame himself, suggesting that maybe that had been what had got the young mech into trouble. It was a cleverly thought out and well played psychological trick and at the time Jazz had believed him. Fraggit, he had even comforted the mech, reassuring him that none of it was his fault!

How he must have been laughing at them behind their backs.

“Just you wait, my dear Chromeblaze” Jazz growled through clenced dentae, “we’ll make sure you choke on that laughter.”

A new name had taken the first position on The List.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm finding it increasingly difficult to tag this monster properly without giving away the plot completely. I'll start putting chapter-specific warnings in the end notes for those readers who want them, but those warnings WILL more often than not be spoiler-y, just so you know

Planning and preparation.

Now more than ever, those were the key words. With the stakes so high and emotions running fierce just below the surface, any spur of the moment decisions ran a high risk of being flawed, with possibly devastating consequences. So, even though calm and cool was a very frustrating attitude for the two outraged creators it was one they had no choice but adopting.

Thankfully, the opening they waited for came only two orns after they had started monitoring all Chromblaze’s communications. It was, in fact, even better than they had dared hope for when they made up their original plan, but they would have to act quickly or not only might the opportunity slip through their fingers but yet another innocent mech’s life would be put in peril.

Therefore, that very same evening, while Jazz was visiting Bluestreak, Prowl made his way to a nondescript habitation building in one of the merchant districts. Once there his ping for entry was answered immediately and he soon found himself in a surprisingly elegant apartment on the 9th floor. His hosts greeted him with amity and he was offered a cube of mild high grade and a place to sit.

Prowl had known Sideswipe and Sunstreaker for a long time. Officially they were detailers and jacks-of-all-trades but their expertise in frame modification combined with considerable acting skills had made them very useful on occasions when Prowl had needed an extra set of optics on the ground in certain areas or, occasionally, as external agents in low risk sting operations.

“So,” Sideswipe said when the initial pleasantries had been exchanged, “We understood from your message you need help with some legwork. What can you tell us?”

Instead of speaking Prowl handed over a data pad. The red mech took it, glanced at its contents with a frown and then did a second take.

“Is that… Bluestreak?” he finally asked, face and field indicating just how much he hoped he was mistaken.

“Yes,” Prowl confirmed, a tremor making its way through his frame in spite of his best efforts to control it. “Eight orns he was abducted and… violated, and the assault led to an attempted suicide. He has been in hospital ever since and we don’t know yet when or if he’ll come out of stasis.”

There was a moment of silence as the red mech handed the datapad to his yellow counterpart, whose engine gave a sharp, angry rev.

“We know who’s behind it,” Prowl continued, “but the authorities have closed the case and made it impossible for us to seek legal justice.”

“Why the frag would they do that?” Sideswipe asked incredulously.

“Because the perpetrator is very wealthy, very influential and played his cards well,” the Praxian replied, his tight voice making it abundantly clear just what he thought of that.

The twins exchanged a quick look.

“Then I take it this is not going to be an officially sanctioned operation,” Sideswipe stated more than asked.

“No, it is not,” Prowl confirmed.

“And probably not very legal, either?”

“Not even remotely.”

The red twin gave a mirthless laugh.

“Never thought I’d hear you say something like that, considering all the times you’ve reminded us not to cross the line. Dangerous?”

“Not so much in the first step, not with the experience you have,” Prowl replied. “Should you choose to stay on after that, however, the risks will increase significantly.”

Sideswipe exchanged another glance with his silent brother, then leaned back in his seat, arms crossed, and nodded.

“Why don’t we go over the whole thing from the beginning?”

Half a joor later Prowl left the apartment with a decidedly unpleasant smile on his lips.

***

Chromeblaze didn’t even try to hide his grin as he studied the stupidly happy face of the overcharged mech in front him.

It was not even an orn since he got the request and he’d already found a perfect match. The customer this time was one of those mutual admiration societies composed of disgustingly wealthy mechs and femmes who had nothing better to do with their time and credits than trying to outdo one another, be it in excess or depravity. Or both combined.

The order they had placed was for a mech, handsome and not too delicate, that “would not be missed or looked for.” Finding someone who matched all those criteria usually took some time and effort but for once he’d struck gold in the first bar he went to.

He hadn’t been there for more than half a joor or so when the mech arrived. The newcomer had a utilitarian but still attractive frame and his colour scheme – teal with accents of purple and black – would be quite striking once touched up and polished. And considering how he’d slumped down at the bar and ordered a large and _very_ strong drink it looked like he was planning on getting himself seriously overcharged.

After observing the mech for a klik, easily reading the tension in frame and field that spoke of anger and frustration, Chromeblaze had struck up a conversation and the teal mech had virtually leapt on the opportunity of venting his feelings to a willing listener. Within a breem Chromeblaze had all the information he needed; the mech, Tracer, was new in town, had no steady job jet, had just ditched his lover and thereby soured the relationship with most of their common friends and his plan for tonight was to get drunk and possibly find someone to frag him into oblivion.

Absolutely perfect.

In the end it had even been Tracer who propositioned Chromeblaze, which the silver mech couldn’t help but find hilariously ironic.

They had left the bar about a joor later and by that time the teal mech was so plastered he could barely walk. Chromeblaze feigned overcharge as well but had in fact drunk very little and was practically sober. Once he had herded the stumbling, giggling mech into the lift of his building he took a snapshot, did some quick editing to cover for the as yet unfixed paint job and sent it to his client for approval.

The confirmation came within a klik, along with an address and a time the following orn when they expected him.

Good, that meant he had plenty of time to enjoy himself tonight and most of the orn tomorrow to prepare the mech for delivery.

With a satisfied smile on his face Chromeblaze dragged his unsuspecting victim into his apartment and shut the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-specific warnings: Taking advantage of someone's drunkenness


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, Chromeblaze fought me tooth and nail over this chapter. Can't imagine why. ;p
> 
> Also, the time units I use are:  
> Nanoklik = second  
> Klik = minute  
> Joor = hour  
> Orn = day

Chromeblaze onlined to a world that made very little sense to him.

He was sitting curled up in a small confined space and when he tried to move his sensor net informed him that his arms and legs were tightly bound.

His first reaction, unsurprisingly, was panic. Wriggling and twisting as much as the limited space allowed he tugged at the restraints with all his strength, only to find them unyielding. There was no light except that from his optics and when he tried to activate his headlights he was met with an error message. His comm. unit remained stubbornly offline too and when he tried to cry out, demanding to know what the frag was going on, the only sound that left his vocalizer was a meaningless string of muffled groans.

Something was Very, Very Wrong.

Once he had collected his wits enough to stop the fruitless struggling he dove into his memory bank, searching the latest files for some kind of explanation. He clearly remembered the hours at the bar and picking up that teal mech whatever his name was and bringing him back to his apartment. The mech had been almost ridiculously eager and overcharged though he was had all but dragged Chromeblaze to berth.

After that he remembered nothing, and checking his chronometer he realised that had been well over half an orn ago.

What in the burning Pit had happened between then and now?

All of a sudden he felt how the ‘room’ started moving and in an instant he knew where he was, or at least what kind of place he was locked up in: a wheeled transport crate, much like the ones he himself used when he wanted to discretely move a mech from one place to another.

Was he being kidnapped? But that was absurd! He had no big money or important position to warrant such an act. He hadn’t botched any jobs lately, either, which might otherwise have had earned him the ire of some important client. But no, that was absurd as well – none of the bots or groups he worked for would ever go to the trouble of kidnapping someone like him. They might decide that he knew too much and have him killed – a risk you had to live with in this trade – but something like this? No, it made no sense.

He felt the crate stop moving and a few moments later the lid was opened. Chromeblaze automatically looked up and came to the conclusion that he must either have lost his mind or be on some very strange drug.

The mech looking down at him was himself.

“Ah, good you see you’re finally awake,” the other Chromeblaze said with a grin on his lips. “I was really hoping we’d be able to exchange a few words before we have to part ways.”

Chromeblaze’s helm was spinning. What was the meaning of this, why would someone be impersonating him? Was this mech going to attempt taking over his business?

He tried to speak again, with the same lack of success as before.

“I wouldn’t bother trying to speak if I were you,” the mech above him said, still smiling. “You see, we took the liberty of fitting you with the language patch you had prepared for Tracer. You know, that poor, gullible mech you were planning to sell to a bunch of sadist nobles tonight, remember?”

Chromeblaze’s optics turned a few shades brighter as he realised just how much the other mech knew. And the language patch was even more disturbing news. The client he was supposed to deliver the teal mech to tonight had requested it: a small program that acted as a filter and only allowed a limited choice of words to be spoken, reducing everything else to moans, mumbles and static. And since he had coded the patch himself he knew exactly which words his vocabulary was now reduced to.

_Yes. No. Help. Stop. Please. Don’t._

A cold fear began to crawl its way through his fuel lines. Surely the mech couldn’t mean to… the client already had pictures and he looked nothing like…

Then he let his gaze drop from the silver-coloured mech above him and down on his on frame. A frame that was now teal.

No. No, it was not possible.

As if in response to his thoughts the imposter pulled a mirror from subspace and held it up in front of Chromeblaze’s face. The terrified visage of ‘Tracer’ stared back at him.

“I must say that my brother looked better as Tracer than you do, but somehow I don’t think anyone is going to notice.”

Chromeblaze’s processor raced in renewed panic as the whole, horrifying truth finally dawned upon him.

“NO!” he screamed, resuming his fight against the restraints and trying desperately to get up. “No, please, don’t!”

The false Chromeblaze smiled again, but this time his optics were cold and cruel.

“Not as much fun to be on the other side of the lid, huh?” he said, preparing to close the crate as the lift they were in signalled they were about to arrive at the desired floor. He pushed the struggling mech down again with little effort, then bent over and hissed into Chromeblaze’s audio: “I want you to know this is for Bluestreak, and all the other mechs and femmes you’ve helped destroy. Once those fragging nobles up there are done with your frame I hope your spark will suffer in the deepest level of the Pit. Forever.”

With that he straightened himself up and slammed the lid shut again, cutting off the screams of the mech who now knew his fate was sealed.

***

Two orns later a gruesome story reached the news feeds.

After receiving an anonymous tip a team of enforcers had stormed an apartment in the upper middle class district and caught five mechs and a femme in the act of cleaning up what the lead investigator called “one of the most horrific murder scenes I’ve come across in my entire career.” The victim, an as yet unidentified mech, had been raped, tortured and badly mutilated in a sadistic orgy that, according to a confiscated video recording, had lasted for over thirteen joors.

On the other side of town, a black and white Praxian ticked a name off a list.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments make the muse happy. =)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here's chapter 8, finally. Special thanks to 12drakon for brainstorming, proofreading and encouragement! <3

“Any news?”

The question had become something of a ritual for the past decaorns and Prowl knew with 99,84% certainty that the answer would be ‘no’. Had anything important happened Jazz would have let him know from the hospital and not waited until he came home.

“Nothing beyond the medic’s report from this afternoon,” his bondmate replied, coming over to join him on the couch. “The new struts have integrated well and they will try to restart the sensory net the orn after tomorrow.”

It had taken eight surgeries and one near fatal system collapse but finally, two orns ago, they had been informed that the critical phase was over. The medics still did not dare promise a 100% recovery but they could say with certainty that Bluestreak would live. Words could not describe the relief the two black and whites had felt in that moment.

Prowl smiled as Jazz curled up next to him and gave him a quick kiss before shifting focus to the data pad in the Praxian’s hands.

“And how are things here?” Jazz asked. “Making any progress on our little cleaning project?”

“Some,” Prowl replied and brought up a new file. “The donations we set up have been noticed by the right people and the twins have done an excellent job with their masquerading. The code you cracked for Fineprint’s private commlink has also been immensely helpful. He’s still in denial but I think it might be time to proceed to the next step. And considering he has an important meeting at Dydecatron tomorrow…”

Prowl highlighted a section on the pad and Jazz read it, an evil grin slowly forming on his lips.

***

Fineprint transformed from vehicle mode outside the office of Dydecatron Industries and was just about to enter the main building when he saw the mech. He stopped dead in his tracks and stared, his vents stalling.

On the other side of the street stood a tall mech with a crested helm and intense, magenta-coloured optics. His plating was almost completely black with a few accents of iridescent green and he had the sleek, graceful frame of a dancer.

Fineprint recognized him all too well. His memory bank automatically brought forth an image of the same mech being pounded into by a large shuttle while he, Fineprint, availed himself of the forcibly parted lips, silencing the mech’s screams with his spike.

He also knew beyond the slightest shadow of a doubt that the mech across the street was deactivated.

 _Get a grip, it’s just a coincidence, someone who looks similar,_ he tried to convince himself without much success. There had been way too many ‘coincidences’ in the last two decaorns for that theory to hold.

First there had been that sky blue Iaconian he’d almost run into outside a bar, one who bore a striking resemblance to a mech Sharplight had shared with him half a vorn ago. For a horrible moment Fineprint had actually thought it was him, that the mech had somehow survived and recovered, but when the Iaconian gave no hint of recognizing him he had relaxed and dismissed the idea as ridiculous.

He had almost forgotten the episode when two orns later he’d seen another familiar frame across the street from his office. When a third encounter happened only joors later Fineprint was starting to wonder if he was losing his processor.

They never really looked at him, never said anything or otherwise acknowledged him but suddenly they were _there_ all the time; walking along a street, standing in a queue, sauntering around in a shop, sitting in an out of the way corner in a restaurant he visited. All of them faces he had personally seen twisted in horror, shame or pain, more often than not at his hand. Sometimes he could even swear he heard faint echoes of them screaming and pleading for mercy. It felt surreal to see them like this, looking completely normal, and for some reason it disturbed Fineprint almost as much as their presence.

He had tried to think of something to do about the situation but had drawn a complete blank. He couldn’t really confront these bots just for existing, and in part he was also held back by the irrational but gnawing fear that if he acknowledged their presence they would in turn recognise him and start accusing him of their rapes and murders. It was an absurd idea, of course, but for some reason he couldn’t shake it.

But the one standing across the street now was different: he was looking- no, glaring at Fineprint, anger and accusation in his gaze, and the lawyer felt his spark seize in fear at the sight. If someone had asked him if he believed in ghosts or avenging spirits he would have scoffed and questioned the sanity of the mech asking, but this was something that didn’t make sense and his processor had been tormenting him with ‘what if…’ for several orns.

Half petrified and unable to tear his optics away he watched as the black mech slowly stepped out in the driving lane and started moving towards him, not once breaking optic contact. Fineprint wanted to turn and run but forced himself to remain where he was. He was _not_ going to give the fragger behind this absurd prank the satisfaction of seeing him cower in fear. Once the black mech reached him the lawyer would be able to prove to himself that it was just a normal Cybertroninan and not some mystical being from a horror story. He would _know_ and the voices in his helm would lose all power over him.

The next part happened so fast it took Fineprint’s frozen processor a few moments to piece together what he had actually seen.

Two vehicle modes turned the corner on screeching tires and came racing along the street. Without regard for the crossing mech they gunned their engines and for a fraction of a moment Fineprint felt intense relief that the unsettling black mech would certainly be struck by the two street racers. Then relief turned into absolute horror as both vehicles went straight through the slowly advancing mech as if he hadn’t even been there.

The lawyer turned and fled into the office building, not daring to look back until he was through the security doors. When he did the street was completely empty.

He stood staring out through the transparent steel for almost two kliks, systems racing and vents open on full blast, until he heard steps behind him and spun around so fast that he almost fell over.

“Excuse me, sir, is anything the matter?”

Fineprint looked in confusion at the mech – apparently an administrative aide or something like that - for a few moments before he managed to pull himself together.

“No, no, everything is fine,” he said, trying to sound casual. “I just thought I saw an old acquaintance passing by outside.”

It was a ridiculously weak excuse for his reaction and the aide gave him an odd look but didn’t comment.

“Very well, sir, in that case Director Sharplight is expecting you.”

Fineprint nodded and, after a last glance through the doors, made his way towards his client’s office.

***

Sharplight checked his chronometer for the 16th time before getting up from his chair to resume the pacing he’d stopped little more than a klik ago. The mech he was waiting for – one of his best spies – was late, and that usually meant bad news.

There was no two ways about it: Fineprint’s behaviour had grown stranger by the orn for the last two decaorns and Sharplight had to know why.

The anticipated ping at the door finally came and an utterly nondescript mech entered, gave a wordless nod in greeting and handed over a data pad. Sharplight took it and started reading, only to look up again after less than a klik.

“Really?”

He gave his visitor a skeptical look but only received another nod in confirmation.

“I’ve checked and double checked everything,” the spy said with the finality of someone who was absolutely sure of his facts. “It’s been very cleverly hidden and if you weren’t actively looking for it it would be impossible to detect but the fact remains: In the past few decaorns Fineprint has donated almost 60 000 credits to these charities. The individual payments are small and look like everyday expenses on his accounts but when compared to the activity log of this profile on a site for anonymous donations it’s a 100% perfect match. There is no way that can be a coincidence.”

Sharplight nodded slowly, optics once more focused on the list in front of him. _The_ _Crisis Center for Abused Younglings. Cybertronians Against Rape. The League of Light. Your Way Back support trust._ It was not difficult to see the link between them, even though it fitted remarkably badly with the lawyer’s tastes in night time activities. The fact that he was so obviously trying to hide his generosity was, of course, the most worrying thing of all. Had it been done in the open Sharplight would have dismissed it as an ordinary display of token goodwill to secure the favour of this or that business partner, but he could only think of three possible reasons for making such donations anonymously, and all of them meant bad news.

One: the lawyer had suddenly grown a conscience and was trying to make amends for his crimes. Very unlikely but stranger things had happened.

Two: Fineprint knew he was under observation from some official authority that he couldn’t buy off, and was thus discretely preparing evidence that might speak in his favour.

Three: Someone had enough blackmail on the mech to force him to do this against his wishes.

Either one of these alone would have been enough to make Sharplight cautious, but combined with the lawyer’s recent odd behaviour it set off all kinds of alarms in the tycoon’s processor. Fineprint knew more than enough about Sharplight’s dealings – private as well as business-related – to be a huge liability if he cracked, and Sharplight had not reached his position by tolerating liabilities.

Making a quick decision not to take the risk of things escalating further Sharplight dismissed the spy and then opened a triple secured comm. link to a very different kind of agent.

***

Shifter watched the square below him, scanning the crowd for his target. He knew the building where the mech worked and at what time he usually arrived, and everything was set for the kill.

At first he had been a little disappointed when the original order - to blow up the entire floor of the lawyer’s residence building as well as his office, with said mech in it - had been recalled and changed into a straightforward assassination job with zero tolerance for collateral damage, but he was a pro and therefore did what the client paid him to do. Part of him wondered what had prompted such an abrupt change of plans; after all, blowing up a mech’s home and work place usually meant there was something stored there that should never be allowed to be found, while, on the contrary, a murder committed out in the open was more than likely to draw interest to those particular areas, but it was not his place to argue with his employer. Sharplight was his most lucrative client by far, not to mention the other perks that came with that particular assignment. Of course the young mechs and femmes he helped the tycoon make disappear were damaged goods by most definitions by the time they landed it Shifter’s hands, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t have fun with them. Sometimes he even managed to sell them on - after making sure they were too fragmented to remember who they were or what had happened to them, of course – and thus double the profit.

So yeah, no way in Pit he was going to risk upsetting Sharplight by questioning his orders.

He went over his mental checklist one more time. His custom built sniper rifle was loaded and ready. He was well hidden and unlikely to be spotted even by a trained observer. His escape route and two contingencies were prepared.

Glancing at his chronometer the assassin scanned the crowd again and this time he spotted the mech he was looking for. It wasn’t difficult - the gold and blue lawyer was conspicuous to say the least and practically had ‘target’ written all over him. This would be so easy.

Lifting his rifle with practiced ease he took aim and squeezed the trigger.

The mech down on the street probably didn’t even have time to register what happened as nine very small high-speed projectiles tore through his frame. For a moment he remained standing, his torso completely perforated, then he fell to the ground in a rapidly growing pool of energon.

Chaos and terrified screaming instantly spread over the square below but Shifter just backed away from the window and calmly started to disassemble his weapon. He knew he had at least half a joor before a ballistics expert would reach the place and be able to point the enforcers in the right direction, and by then he would have discretely made his way out of there, his nondescript appearance making it unlikely that anyone who may have seen him would even remember it.

He was, therefore, taken completely surprise when a troupe of no less than eight enforcers stormed the room less than two kliks later. Cursing loudly as he was subdued and cuffed he realised that he’d been set up. There was no way the enforcers would have been able to find him this quickly unless someone had led them here. And the only one who’d known where he would be was Sharplight.

 _That stinking fragger set me up!_ he thought, fuming as he heard the force captain formally read out the grounds for his arrest. Shifter knew he was already wanted for several murders and probably could be traced to at least a dozen other crimes as well, meaning he was highly unlikely to get anything but the death penalty. Unless he could strike a deal…

 _Well, if I’m going down I’m not going down alone,_ he swore as he was dragged out of the building and towards a waiting transport. _Just you wait, Sharplight, you’re going to the Pit for this!_

Across the street a black and white mech with a gleaming blue visor observed the procedure, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.


End file.
